Still Going in Circles
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: "Why are you here." / "To pay my respects." [post-movie AU. 3 years later. After Alfred died, Bruce made a decision that might change everything - or nothing at all.]


Alfred was sick.

Bruce had seen him trying to hide it for months; the fatigue he would brush off with a sarcastic comment about long nights, the scheduled visits he would make away from the manor, always coinciding with a play-date, so that Bruce wouldn't worry. It didn't stop Bruce from worrying. Tommy was the only one who would still come to visit, but it was hard to think of anything to say.

Tommy was _glad_ his own parents were dead. Bruce had known that they were awful, of course, but it still seemed inconceivable. He didn't feel he could say anything to Tommy, and Tommy seemed to realize why. He'd begun to speak very curtly to Bruce, and they rarely went out to play in the fields like they used to. Instead they sat stiffly on high-backed old chairs and made stilted conversation; Tommy about the things he was doing these days and Bruce about crime.

Bruce was interested in crime. It was hard not to be, when his parents were dead. Had been shot. When the whole city had seemed to rise up and become a many-headed monster with clown-faces. It reminded him of the stories of Gray Ghost, which he had not watched since, because it had made him feel achy and terrible, remembering how his mother would make popcorn and his father would set up the room like he was going to a real movie.

The problem was Bruce didn't seem to know how to talk about other things, besides crime. When Tommy brought up baseball cards, he only nodded, and tried to remember what the other boys said about that kind of thing. When Tommy talked about school, he could say nothing, because he'd chosen to be tutored at home since then.

He wanted to say _I'm afraid Alfred is dying and I don't know what to do at all_, but he knew Tommy would be no help on that account. He had tried to take note of Alfred's symptoms, or to read up on various diseases, but they all seemed so horrible and equally likely, and none of them were the kind of thing he could do _anything_ about.

He felt helpless, and angry.

He didn't want to inconvenience Alfred and he was afraid to bring it up until Alfred finally brought it up with him.

Alfred said he had made arrangements.

"What kind of arrangements," Bruce said flatly. He was sitting in another chair, twisted all the way around so he could look toward the window and not toward Alfred. He wanted to cry, but he was too angry.

"Bruce…" Alfred sighed. "I am so very, very sorry. You know I would stay with you if I could. I wanted to… beyond anything else… but it seems my time is being cut short. I'm only grateful it didn't happen suddenly. I've been able to put your affairs in order. Everything is in your name, and you should have no trouble getting your fortune when you're of age. In the meantime you require a guardian."

"I don't want one," Bruce said. "If you're gone I'd rather live alone."

"I understand," Alfred said. "Unfortunately, the law is the law. Now, I've been talking to your mother's aunt and she said she might be willing—"

"I've never even _met_ her," Bruce snarled. He curled his arms tighter around himself. "She never came to visit when my parents were alive. She didn't even come to the funeral. She thinks I'm a _charity_ case."

The silence from Alfred's direction was very long. Finally, Bruce peeked over his shoulder to see Alfred watching him. Alfred sighed deeply. "Be that as it may," he said at last. "It's still your family. I don't know who else to ask. I know you're fond of Leslie Thompkins, and I'm sure she would be up for the job, but I felt I must at least bring the matter up with family first—"

"Leslie would be better," Bruce said, and only then realized that Alfred had tricked him into talking about after he was gone.

/

Bruce chose not to go to the funeral. It was a yellow autumn day, with a parchment-brown sky that hinted of rain, an unnatural light so late in the day. Everything was still, but for the sporadic gusts of wind. He thought Alfred would understand.

Instead he sneaked away from the proceedings and wandered out across the grounds.

Away by the hole that he'd fallen down one afternoon, that his father had saved him from. Away by the dark gnarled trees, standing watchful in that last breath of daylight, casting long creeping shadows over the lawn.

There was a man in the trees.

With a red coat like blood.

Like cherries.

Like candy.

Bruce stared at him.

"Why are you here," he said listlessly. He didn't really care, somehow. He knew it was the Joker. He knew it was _Arthur Fleck_, the man who had visited him three years ago, when he was only nine.

"To pay my respects," the man said. He didn't walk out of the shadows, like maybe the light would swallow up the black tips of his shoes. His white-painted face was like a sign, eerie and exaggerated, pointing in directions Bruce couldn't follow.

"You don't care about Alfred," Bruce said. "You tried to choke him."

"I didn't, though," the man said.

Bruce thought about that for a moment. "All right," he said. He looked away, far across the fields, toward the manor, toward the hill hidden away beyond. "The service is that way, you know," he said.

"You're not there," Arthur said.

"I didn't want to be," Bruce said. "I paid my respects already."

"What will happen to you now?" Arthur said.

Bruce turned back to him, looked up. Found his sight struggling against that red-painted grin, and resting there, watching the place the words came out. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Come with me," Arthur said.

Bruce thought about it for a long time. Joker had killed people. He was very dangerous. Everyone said so.

Still. He was beginning to hate the sight of this field. He found the idea of going back to that funereal crowd terrifying. It folded out before him with all the visits he knew must happen. With all the arguments that had had already been started between Leslie and his mother's aunt. Between hours and days and weeks of waiting, for nothing, because Alfred was still dead and nothing would change that.

And his parents were still dead, and nothing would change that at all.

"Fine," he said. Arthur held out his hand and Bruce took it and followed him, wondering where they were going. He didn't really care, but he wondered nevertheless.

/

The Joker had an apartment and many people in the same building who knew him. But at least in there, there were no people. The blinds were half-shuttered and they threw long striped shadows across the floor.

"Do you want something to eat?" Joker asked. He seemed hesitant, unsure. Now that they were in his own apartment he didn't seem to know what to do with himself; stuck his hands in his pocket, pulled out a lighter, flicked it on and off. He looked toward Bruce and put it away again. Then, a moment later, pulled it out once more, pulled out a cigarette, and began to smoke.

"That's awful," Bruce said.

"Sorry," Arthur said. "It steadies my nerves. I can put it out, if you want."

"Yes, please," Bruce said.

Arthur ground the cigarette into the wall, leaving a black-brown smear. Bruce watched it. There was something fascinating about the mark, like it was written in charcoal. It reminded him of something dead and squished and horrible.

He went into the kitchen. Bruce heard the sound of things being moved about, carefully, then followed him into the doorway to watch. Arthur was peering into his fridge. "I, uh…" he said, smiling a little. The tips of his very wide-painted red smile pointing up and up. He made a little shrugging motion with both shoulders. "I don't have anything in here. I can ask one of the gang downstairs. One of them probably knows how to get food. Or has some already. Do you… have any preferences?"

Bruce told him, and Arthur nodded, listening. "All right," he said. "All right. One moment. I'll go. If you want to come you can. You don't have to."

"I think I'll stay," Bruce said quietly. Arthur nodded to him and left, and Bruce stood by the door watching for a while, and then went poking about the place.

Everyone was probably worrying about him.

Well. Not everyone.

Leslie, maybe.

Everyone else was dead.

He should probably tell her that he'd left.

He wouldn't want her to worry.

She would probably worry anyway.

Joker was a killer, after all.

But he didn't want to kill Bruce. He'd tried to help Bruce. At least, that's what it seemed like. Maybe he was going to kill Bruce after they had dinner. That seemed unlikely though.

/

Somehow the gang had grown fond of him. That's what Arthur said, anyhow. Bruce wouldn't know. He liked some of them, though. They were always asking if Arthur had remembered to get enough food. Or clothes. Or if Bruce needed anything. They seemed to worry that Arthur would be bad at that sort of thing.

He wasn't, really, though. Arthur said he'd had a lot of practice, taking care of his mom. He balanced his checkbook on the kitchen counter, using a pen held in his hand, twisted awkwardly around, drawing in shaky block letters and pressing down hard. It was the kind of hold his tutors would have scolded him for if Bruce had done it, and Bruce wanted to show him how to do it right, but Arthur had only stared at him when he brought it up, and said he knew how it was supposed to be done already.

"I've been to school, you know," he said.

Bruce wasn't sure what to make of it, because Arthur stopped talking then, but was still looking at him. He thought Arthur must be feeling something that he didn't want to talk about. Then Arthur changed the subject, and told him about checkbook-balancing. He said it was what you ought to do, even if you _were_ using stolen money. Otherwise it might disappear on you. Bruce watched him. He could follow along as Arthur explained, and it was interesting to see where the money came from and where it was going, all lined up in little rows.

He'd read the newspapers. He knew Arthur had killed his mother. After years of taking care of her.

Perhaps Arthur would do the same to Bruce.

/

Arthur wasn't very good at remembering not to smoke. He would do it in the living room at night, and then snuff it out in the ashtray if Bruce awoke and walked in. He would look away, and say, "sorry."

Bruce wasn't sure if Arthur was really sorry, though. It might be like with killing. He just did it anyway.

They were still doing that, the gang. He'd heard them talking about their plans as if it didn't matter. They'd only stopped when Bruce had shouted that they shouldn't talk about those things. But they still left with guns and came back with guns.

They were mostly very nice people.

Arthur had made everyone that wasn't leave. Bruce was good at telling those things. He just thought that perhaps he wasn't good at following his own directions. Or maybe some people were worse than others.

But still. Some of them were bad, and Arthur made them go away. Others stayed, and Bruce liked them. But they were all criminals.

It didn't make sense.

He didn't know how Arthur could dance with the record on like he was on stage and still go out with guns and come back with blood off him that he wiped off in the bathroom with the water running hot, while Bruce stood in the doorway and watched.

/

"Do you want to dance too?" Arthur asked. He'd been dancing, though there wasn't any music on. He'd been speaking to an audience that was probably Bruce, most of the time. He'd looked in his direction; noticed he was there, watching, with his hands tangled in the thready edges of the throw on the couch.

"I don't know how," Bruce said.

Arthur laughed. One of the good kind. Not the one that made him hold his throat like there was something inside it that shouldn't be. "It's okay, I'll show you if you want."

Bruce looked at him for one more minute, then nodded.

He stood up and walked over to Arthur.

"I should probably put on some music," Arthur said. "Or… maybe not. That's too complicated. It adds all sorts of noise." He looked past Bruce for a minute, then twirled his hand and opened it toward Bruce. "Take it here. I'll show you a few steps."

Bruce looked at his feet as they danced. He knew that was terrible manners, from overhearing all the gossip from before, in the manor. When his parents had hosted grand parties, and had still been alive.

Arthur didn't seem to mind.

.

.

.


End file.
